


and the sun still rises

by idaate



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, everything's a metaphor for pain, virtual reality au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idaate/pseuds/idaate
Summary: [ MAJOR V3 SPOILERS ]“My New Year’s resolution is…” Ouma pauses and clasps his hands together firmly, his expression doused in seriousness for once, “that the person named Momota Kaito gives me all of his money! Every last yen!”“I—you can’t make up resolutions for other people!” Momota says, leaning forward. Saihara tries not to laugh and fails. “And that isn’t really a resolution at all!”.Ouma, Momota and Saihara ring in the new year together for the first time since the killing game ended.





	and the sun still rises

**Author's Note:**

> First fic of the new year hurray !
> 
> I finished exams and then spent all of my winter break being depressed and unproductive laughs. That's just how it be sometimes.
> 
> This is pretty self-indulgent, but I hope you enjoy!

Ouma taps the table idly as Momota finishes his second glass of sake, lips pursed together as he places the glass gently on the futon. “Okay,” he says, “okay okay okay okay. _Whew._ I’m—I’m good, thanks. I’ve had enough,” he says when Saihara reaches over to refill his glass. “Christ. I’m not an addict or anything.”

“Not yet,” Ouma hums as he takes a sip of his own drink. “But this is Momo-chan’s first time drinking after he’s turned twenty, and people don’t become addicts hot off the press! Well, most don’t at least.” He takes another sip of his drink, and Momota’s eyes narrow.

“You’re not even twenty yet, and you’re drinking some sake,” he mutters, but Ouma waves a finger and tuts.

“This is amazake, and it’s not like you can get drunk off of that,” he says, taking a third more pointed sip. “And they let kids even younger than yours truly drink this on New Year’s, so I’m fine.”

“So you admit you’re an infant,” Momota mutters, pushing his palm up his face and blinking twice. “Man. People do this for fun? Like, they get their heads all fucked up for a night for _fun?_ I mean, to each their own, but.” He taps his forehead. “Yeah, this is a once a year occurrence for me. I don’t like not being able to think.”

Ouma silently agrees with him as Saihara pipes up, saying, “I-I mean, not _everyone_ does it for fun. Or, some people don’t want to think because thinking makes them, ah,” he flushes a little as Momota and Ouma’s gazes focus on him, shrinking back into his seat, “them...sad. That’s why I, er,” he clears his throat and pushes his hands across the futon.

Ouma watches his fingers in half-interest - ah, he really couldn’t hold his alcohol, could he? Even though the concentration in this was pathetically small. He scowls and stares at the liquid in his glass, swirling it around and distorting his reflection.

“Ouma-kun,” says Saihara, and Ouma looks up.

“What?” he says, voice sickly sweet, and Saihara smiles gently, tapping his fingers against the futon and drawing Ouma’s attention there. He agreed to let Ouma do his nails and now there’s a messy pattern of black, purple and maroon colors on the ends of his fingers. He didn’t try to take it off, Ouma thinks, and his permanent smile feels a little more natural.

“We’re going to share our New Year’s resolutions before the year rolls in,” he says. “Did you come up with any resolutions? If not, I can go first.”

“Nope,” says Ouma, and then, “wait! Yeah! I came up with _tons_ and tons of resolutions. New year, new me and all that.”

“Really?” says Momota, leaning in with an upturned eyebrow. “Let’s hear it, then.”

 _“My_ New Year’s resolution is…” Ouma pauses and clasps his hands together firmly, his expression doused in seriousness for once, “that the person named Momota Kaito gives me all of his money! Every last yen!”

“I—you can’t make up resolutions for other people!” Momota says, leaning forward. Saihara tries not to laugh and fails. “And that isn’t really a resolution at all!”

“And that he realizes what a wonderful person I am and makes a callout post on himself so that everyone realizes how terrible he is in comparison to me,” Ouma continues on, eyes still closed, “and also he dedicates his life to starting the Ouma Kokichi fanclub and running it and making a lot of Ouma Kokichi merchandise so that the entire world can learn how amazing I am and grow to appreciate me more and more throughout the years.”

“What the fuck,” says Momota, and Ouma opens his eyes to see Momota sighing, “what the fuck.”

“U-uhm,” Saihara says, trying to keep his face straight, “ah. Momota-kun, why don't you start instead?”

“Fine,” Momota snorts, crossing his arms and leaning back from the futon. “I came up with something heartfelt n’ shit unlike, uh,” he pulls at his goatee, which had slowly been creeping over Momota’s face over the past several months. Ouma wants to grab a razor and shave it all off. “I forget what Iruma called you.”

“It was ‘the one that’s a million times better than Momo-chan,’” supplies Ouma helpfully. Momota puffs his cheeks out and exhales.

“My big one was going to be being less violent n’ shit,” he mutters. “You know. Working on anger issues or,” he waves a hand, “whatever. Not being the sort of person I was. You know.”

Ouma bites the inside of his cheek while Saihara says, “I think that’s an excellent resolution, Momota-chan.”

“Ah!” Ouma presses his hands against his cheeks and closes his eyes. “Momo-chan becoming a whole new person...I wonder what sort of perfect little personality I should form for you! Hm, hm hm hm!"

“Shut up,” Momota mutters, and Ouma takes another bite of the inside of his cheek. “I—you can shut your pretty little mouth.” He pulls at a hangnail, working his tongue around the inside of his mouth. “I know everyone’s like ‘you’re just gonna quit your resolutions part of the way through so don’t go for something super important because you’ll fuck it up,’ but.” He clears his throat. “That’s not gonna fuckin’ happen.”

Saihara opens his mouth but Ouma says, “Ah! You called me pretty!” first. He points at Momota and stage whispers to Saihara, “He called me pretty! He thinks I’m pretty!”

Momota doesn’t even bother getting riled up, and just smiles and waves at Saihara. “Well, come on then, it’s your turn.”

“S-so it is,” Saihara clears his throat and stares at his hands. “I...uhm. This year I’m going to try and stop saying ‘I’m sorry’ and instead say ‘thank you’. In situations where that makes sense, of course.” He inhales. “Being excessively apologetic is bad for one’s mental health and self-confidence, and while it's good to apologize when you do something wrong, you need to have more confidence in the fact that not everything is your fault."

“What wikipedia page did you read that one off of?” Ouma says before he can stop himself, and Saihara shifts uncomfortably.

“I think it’s a great resolution,” Momota says, patting Saihara’s back. “We’ll try to remind you about it as long as you do the vice versa, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Saihara.

It’s silent then, awkwardly so, save for the noises that their small television makes in the corner of the room.

“Okay!” Ouma claps his hands together. “Your terrible and disgraceful resolutions have given me a new idea of my own, so clean your ears of wax or shit or whatever you have stuffed in there.”

“What else would we have stuffed inside our ears,” Momota grumbles, and Saihara sends him a look of caution as Ouma continues.

“This year,” he says, “I want—oh whoops would you look at that there are twenty seconds till the new year! Guess I can’t say ha ha!”

Momota rolls his eyes and mutters “Fuckin’ typical.”

Ouma laughs as the person in their tiny television counts down the digits til the end of the year, six, five, four, three, two—

“Happy New Year!” says Saihara, clapping his hands together. Momota reaches across the futon to give Saihara a kiss on the cheek. Ouma clears his throat and sticks out his face, making Saihara giggle and Momota give Ouma a kiss on the cheek as well.

Ouma closes his eyes and grips the table as Saihara chastely kisses his other cheek. He doesn’t even duck away.

 

.

 

It’s on Ouma’s insistence that they all dress up in kimonos the next morning. Momota doesn’t protest at all to Ouma’s surprise, which is probably _why_ he isn’t protesting, to mess with Ouma’s head or some shit—

But Ouma plants a kiss on Momota’s nose after he finishes tying the taller boy’s sash. Momota’s nose wrinkles up and his skin turns a half shade darker as Ouma leans against his chest in order to reach his face. “Get off,” he mutters, and Ouma laughs, pressing his ear against his chest anyways.

“But Momo-chan has such a well shaped tiddie!” he hums. “So swole, so comfortable, so soft!”

“Wha— _stop it,”_ Momota’s voice raises as he shoves Ouma off good naturedly, making him giggle wildly as Saihara catches him and straightens him up.

“Come on, now,” he says gently. “I don’t want your kimonos to come undone, alright? It’d be a mess to redress and everything, and it’s already crowded enough as it is around the shrines…”

“Sorry, Shumai!” says Ouma, not feeling sorry at all as Saihara’s face turns even darker than Momota’s had moments beforehand. He distracts himself by pressing the cold metal of a flowered white pin against Ouma’s forehead before pushing it and the center of Ouma’s bangs to the side, fastening it all together nicely. Ouma glances at himself in the mirror and hums delightedly, swishing the sleeves of his own kimono to and fro.

“I look so _sexy,”_ he murmurs in an exaggeratedly sensual tone, making Saihara reach up to cover his mouth to hide a smile.

“Alright,” says Saihara, grabbing his wallet, “are we all ready, then?”

“Ah, wait one second!” Ouma darts out of their hallway and into his room, sifting through several blankets before finding what he was searching for.

“Hurry up,” says Momota just as Ouma walks back into the hallway, gripping the item in his fist firmly.

“I’m ready as I’ll ever be!” he says. “And what about you, Momo-chan?”

Momota opens his mouth, closes it, and then says, “What’s that?”

“Oh, this?” Ouma hefts up the wine bottle full of coins. It’s a little heavier than he had expected, but that’s fine. “I’m going to use this to knock you out and then hide your body, Momo-chan! You should know me better at this point.”

Momota groans and Saihara smile-grimaces and says, “D-do you need anything else, Ouma-kun?”

“Nope!”

“Then,” he fumbles with the door handle, “let’s go, alright?”

Even though he expects the streets to be crowded, Ouma still feels a little choked up as strangers press up against him. He’s not sure if it’s worse or better to try and stay as close to Momota and Saihara as possible, but when he eyes them he sees that they’ve locked elbows as they navigate the streets. Ouma swallows and tucks his wine bottle underneath his armpit as he tries not to think about how everyone around him is getting closer, _squishing_ him till he’s just a bloodstain on the metal—

“This one’s nice,” says Saihara when they reach a smaller shrine, clinging to the outskirts of the neighborhood like cobwebs. Even though there are less people here, Ouma uses his free hand to stick more tell-tale purple strands of hair inside his hat. Just in case anyone recognizes the villain of the fifty-third season of _Danganronpa_ or whatever.

Momota and Saihara unlock elbows now and walk up to the shrine, dropping in coins and clapping their hands. Ouma watches them for a second before Momota turns around, frowning. “Hey, Ouma,” he says, “you gonna pray or are you above gods?”

“I mean, yeah, duh,” says Ouma, but he walks forwards anyway, hands a little clammy as he lifts the wine bottle over his head once he reaches the offering box. He inhales and begins to swing it forwards.

“W—Ouma!” says Momota, and then there’s a hand stopping him from smashing the bottle against the wooden slits of the offering box. Ouma rolls his eyes and stares at Momota as he says, “Y-you’re only supposed to put in one coin, idiot. Don’t go wasting money like that.”

Ouma rolls his eyes again and looks at Saihara, who’s looked up from his prayer to glance at them in vague concern. “I don’t think any of the gods will get all pissy-wissy like you if they find a little extra money in their boxes,” he says. “Someone’s gotta pay off all your sins, Momo-chan! And,” he points at Saihara, “Saihara-chan has less sins, but still some, so I decided to be the gracious wonderful loving angel - as always - and pay off your debts for you two. Even if this still isn’t even close to enough.”

Momota opens his mouth, closes it, and shrugs. “Y’know what, you do you,” he says. “Let ‘er fly.”

Ouma smiles, lifts the wine bottle over his head, and smashes it down. A lot of coins don’t even make it inside the slits, flying in every which direction along with the shattered glass from the bottle.

 

.

 

They decide to split their osechi together, because Ouma and Saihara’s stomachs are both too small to handle a three-tiered box and Momota doesn’t want to waste money even if they have more than enough to buy a dozen three-tiered osechi.

But Ouma digresses and stabs the steamed shrimp with his chopsticks. “Manners,” says Saihara absentmindedly, and Ouma rolls his eyes as he bites off where the head would’ve been.

“Ish good,” he says. “Give my regards to the chef!” Saihara begins to stand up and Ouma hurriedly adds, “Joking.”

Momota cracks apart the lobster’s shell. “Ugh,” he mutters, poking around at the meat inside. “This one’s full of shit.”

“Just like you!” says Ouma, and Momota rolls his eyes.

“Can you give it a _rest,_ already,” he says. “You like lobster, right? You gobbled it up when we took you here for your birthday, so help me clean this shit out.”

“Mmm…” Ouma grabs the bigger lobster claw and pries it open, nearly cutting himself on the shell. “I think I’ll refrain.”

“Fuck you,” mutters Momota, and he uses one of the napkins to clean the lobster a little. Ouma fake gags. “That’s nasty,” Momota says around a mouthful of lobster.

“You’re nasty,” singsongs Ouma, and Saihara pats Ouma on the head. Ouma slurps at his meal so that he doesn’t feel like flinching, but ends up spilling some sauce on his kimono. “Oh nooo…” he moans. “That was _expensive..._ Momo-chaaaaaaaaan this is all your fault!”

“W-what?!” Momota sputters on his food, nearly choking. “No it fucking isn’t!”

“Anyway,” says Saihara, lowering his voice an octave, “I know we just started eating, but we should finish up soon. There are some, ah,” he coughs, and Ouma leans back in his seat to see a pair of teenagers take a couple seconds too long to avert their gazes from his group. “Some. Fans of _Danganronpa_ around.”

“Yeah, us!” says Ouma, and Saihara looks at him tiredly.

“Okay,” says Momota, already placing his half-finished meal back into its proper box and placing them on top of each other. Ouma whines about how he wanted to take more time, but Momota’s already throwing his jacket on Ouma’s face.

As they leave, Saihara says, “It’s...too bad, really. I liked this area.”

“We could stay,” Momota mutters. “The glitz and glamour will fade eventually, and then we don’t have to worry about moving again.”

“Nope!” sings Ouma, and that’s the end of that argument.

 

.

 

Even though they know it’s unhealthy, both Momota and Saihara agree to sleep underneath the futon with Ouma. It’s a mess to get out of their kimonos and, frankly, Ouma’s really lazy, so he just sorta undoes his sash and lets it drop to the floor before crawling underneath the blankets. Momota and Saihara put a bit more effort into dressing into proper sleepwear, and after a few more minutes nestle themselves on either side of Ouma.

Ouma tries not to think about how his chest constricts as Momota and Saihara wrap their arms around him, around each other, wedging him between them like a hydraulic press.

“You know what,” Ouma says, wiggling out from the two of them and losing a sock in the process, “Momo-chan, your pits _stink._ I don’t think you washed yourself at all!”

Before he can hear Momota’s response, he’s skipped into the kitchen and grabbed one of the cat-print mugs from the cabinet. The refrigerator hums as he pulls out a jug of milk. He closes the door and pours the milk into the mug before shoving it into the microwave.

He slams the door shut and sets the timer for forty-five seconds. “Saihara-chan, what do you want?” he says in a whisper, and Saihara sighs from behind him.

“You should rest,” he says. “But if you don’t want to sleep so close to Momota-kun or I, I understand. But it’s really cold, so do you want me to set up the heater in your room?”

“Jeez, Saihara-chan,” Ouma rolls his eyes, “the two of you are gross but not _that_ gross. I’ll still sleep next to the two of you.”

“Alright,” says Saihara.

The two of them sit in silence as the microwave continues to hum.

“Hey, Saihara-chan,” Ouma says suddenly, “the last time I remember celebrating New Year’s outside of was with my super evil organization.

Saihara’s silent for a second, and then says, “Thank you for sharing that with me, Ouma-kun.”

“Our celebration was totally lame. Ours, as in, Momo-chan and yours,” Ouma continues, and the microwave sings a little ditty to signify that his milk has finished warming up. He reaches in and nearly burns himself on the heated ceramic, blowing at the liquid to cool it down as he jumps onto the counter.

“I mean, I _guess_ our celebration was okay by normal people’s standards, but,” he takes a sip, “DICE’s celebrations were absolutely stunning. We had a biiiiig super secret field that the government destroyed recently where we would light tons of illegal fireworks, the kinds that burst into shapes, and then they would burst into a shape of each of the members’ heads. But my head shape the most, because I was the leader! So the celebration you guys threw wasn’t even comparable.” He sighs. “We didn’t even have sparklers. What was the damn point.”

“Ouma-kun,” says Saihara, and Ouma throws his head back as he chugs the rest of the milk down, “they don’t have fireworks that explode into shapes, do they? At least, they can’t have ones that make something as detailed as someone’s face, right?”

Ouma doesn’t respond for a second, finishing off the milk before he lets out a sigh. “Aww man, you got me, Saihara-chan!” he says. “Yep, they can’t make fireworks like that because technology and the government sucks. All that cleared up,” he taps his chin and winks, “I wonder how much of what I said was a lie, huh?”

Saihara pauses, and then says, “You said what you _remembered,_ so...I don’t think anything you said could have actually happened, since your organization doesn’t. Ah.” He pulls at his shirt collar awkwardly. “But...the memory is what counts, right? And so next year, Momota-kun and I will try and make a celebration that can be compared to your organization’s New Year’s celebration.”

Ouma stares at the mug before dropping it into the sink. “Wow Saihara-chan,” he drawls, “are you drunk? ‘Cause you’re spouting a looot of sentimental crap. Though I guess you do that always, so,” he shrugs, “maybe you’re actually in a perpetual state of being wasted. Anyways!” He jumps off of the counter. “Time to go wake up Momo-chan with my cold hands!”

And Saihara only laughs lightly as Ouma trips over his undone kimono in his rush to get to the futon, but he manages to make it look like it was on purpose when he slaps his palms directly onto Momota’s face. Momota lets out a yelp and jumps up, but Ouma manages to swerve out of the way soon enough so that they won’t smash skulls.

When Saihara manages to calm the both of them down, Ouma nestles himself against Momota’s chest and feels Saihara press his face against his back. He sighs contentedly and lets himself be squished.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed!


End file.
